


Dead Leaves

by MeikoAtsushi



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Anorexic Oikawa, Depression, Honestly just meaningless angst, M/M, Mostly Platonic, Resolved ending, Seijoh seniors bonding, The endless dead leaf metaphor, Worried HanaMatsu, hinted romance - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-13
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-07-11 20:57:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15980366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeikoAtsushi/pseuds/MeikoAtsushi
Summary: He likes watching flowers wilt.How the blush of color turns into a dry, arid brown, petals once soft with life turning into a crisp, flat leaf.He likes how the green is drained away.He likes how it resonates within him.(A.K.A. The meaningless IwaOi angst fic)





	Dead Leaves

**Author's Note:**

> This is legit just angst. I was in a mood, I wrote angst.

_He likes watching flowers wilt._

_How the blush of color turns into a dry, arid brown, petals once soft with life turning into a crisp, flat leaf._

_He likes how the green is drained away._

_He likes how it resonates within him._

* * *

 

“Hey.”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“You’ve been working on the same question for the past ten minutes.”

 

“So? It’s calculus.” Oikawa scans the problem for the umpteenth time, spinning the mechanical pencil between his fingers, the ‘x’ and ‘y’s but a fleeting file of words. He scribbles the problem down on his notebook, as if to show that he’s making progress – and Iwaizumi purses his lips together and returns to his biology readings.

 

He doesn’t feel like working. He doesn’t feel like studying. He doesn’t feel like talking or yapping in Iwaizumi’s ear.

 

(He doesn’t feel like breathing. Like living.)

 

Eventually, he slaps the half of his notebook onto the other half and marks the page he left off. Iwaizumi’s clearly absorbed in the fascination of ecology, and Oikawa doesn’t have a reason to interrupt him, not now. So he rocks back and forth, hugging his legs and gazing at the posters of bands that Iwaizumi liked, with rectangular photographs dotted in between.

 

He spots one particular picture with him and Iwaizumi, along with Hanamaki and Matsukawa, with them posed around Tokyo Tower on their freshman school field trip. He’s there. Of course he is – but it almost feels like he shouldn’t be.

 

“Hey.” Iwaizumi calls, and it’s the second time that he hasn’t addressed him with ‘Shittykawa’ or ‘Trashykawa’ or anything of the sort. It’s as if the familiarity is gone, and Oikawa doesn’t like that. “You’re procrastinating.” His best friend lamely points out, but his brows are furrowed in concern and his highlighter is loosely held in his hand, his attention detached from the text on his lap.

 

“Gee,” Oikawa fakes an eye-roll, “Thanks for announcing it for the galaxy to know.”

 

Iwaizumi’s highlighter bobs up and down in his right hand, as if he’s debating whether he should continue his assignment or focus on his best friend.

 

“You know, Iwa-chan, Yoshikawa-sensei told our class that there’s going to be a quiz on that section.” He lies with a teasing smile and is honestly uncertain if the latter will fall for it.

 

He does. “The fuck, she didn’t say anything like that.” The yellow cap of his highlighter jolting upward, Iwaizumi’s frantically skimming the words on the page. Oikawa laughs, and then lets his voice fade away with the ticking noise of the clock in the room. He decides to stare at the photograph for another three seconds, and then averts his attention.

 

He doesn’t remember what he looks like in the photo.

 

* * *

 

_Volleyball._

It’s his identity. As he holds the ball between his palms, as he tosses the ball into the air, as he ever so cautiously unfolds his fingertips, he is defined as Oikawa Tooru.

 

His world knocks over in slow motion, as the ball swirls in the air, blue and yellow alternating, as a satisfying ‘smack’ pierces through his muted silence. His feet touch the ground, and his knees buckle a little, until he regains his posture and replays the sensation, for another hour or so.

 

It’s an addiction. It’s an obsession.

 

It’s what he lives for.

 

“ _You’re not a genius.”_

He knows. He’s painfully aware. It’s exactly why he drilled his body down to exhaustion to refine his skills; it’s exactly why he sharpened his sense through countless matches.

 

He can’t stand prodigies. Of course, prodigies practice, given the determination. But it doesn’t alter the fact that Oikawa is going to be hopelessly behind, perhaps not as of the present but of the future. It frustrates him, it empties him, it leaves him hollow.

 

He runs through these thoughts once more in his last period class, the lecture of his teacher going through deaf ears. It’s been approximately 45 minutes since he last jotted down any notes, and if the teacher noticed, she hasn’t scolded him for it.

 

It’s autumn, and the leaves are orange, red, yellow, brown. The leaves flutter to the Earth, and dry. Oikawa admires the sight. He’s mesmerized by it the entire class period, and he doesn’t realize school is over until Hanamaki taps him on the shoulder.

 

“Yo.” His bag slung over one arm, Hanamaki grins. Then his mood falters, when he sees Oikawa’s face. Oikawa isn’t sure why. “You okay?”

 

“Yeah,” The brunette pushes his body upward, his knees shaking as he tried to stand. “Just tired.” He is tired. He doesn’t even know why. He slept 7 hours, test week is over, and he skipped a few meals but that shouldn’t be a big deal. He’s just tired.

 

Hanamaki eyes him, his fingers doing a jittery tap dance around the strap of his bag. “Don’t overwork yourself, captain.” His voice holds a tint of concern, but Oikawa doesn’t care enough to catch on. Instead, he waves the topic away and complains about something, anything that he can remember. He whines about this guy from the adjacent class that bumped into him and didn’t even apologize. He actually doesn’t mind it all that much, but he doesn’t like the look on Hanamaki’s face.

 

His friend snorts at him as he relates the story, calls him an idiot and rubs his back.

 

The leaves fall outside.

 

* * *

 

It’s a Saturday morning, and he stirs in the darkness of his room. He has morning practice. The alarm rang 40 minutes ago, and has gone off 4 times on snooze since. Practice started twenty minutes ago. He should get up, brush his teeth, and rush out of his bed, while preparing a better excuse than ‘my alarm didn’t go off’.

 

He doesn’t.

 

He isn’t entirely certain what drives him to do this. Without volleyball, he’s a shell. Now, he was letting the sport slip out of his hands. He simply wanted sink into the cushions of his mattress, the warmth of his comforter and blankets. His fingers clutch the pillow cover, and he feels an icky hotness spread over the cloth as he exhales into the pillow.

 

He’s just tired.

 

He allows his eyelids to shield him from the remnants of light that enters his room. He falls into another cycle of dreamless sleep, his body curling into a fetal position. He doesn’t wake until there’s the echo of aggressive knocking beneath, and a series of impatient bell chimes. He doesn’t want to go down. But when he realizes that it’s 3 in the afternoon, his guilt eats up his drowsiness, and he gathers himself and briskly heads down the staircase. The knocks only get louder, and doorbell vibrates.

 

When he opens the door, it is roughly thrust upon him, that it takes him by surprise. There are three familiar faces, but for a moment Oikawa doubts it’s real.

 

“What the _fuck,_ Oikawa.” Iwaizumi growls, obviously furious. “You don’t just _ditch_ practice like that, not without notifying any of us –“, Matsukawa grabs Iwaizumi’s right arm, and Hanamaki is wearing an expression that seems to be undecided on whether it wants to glare or frown.

 

“I’m sorry,” is all Oikawa manages to vocalize, his body heavy. “I slept through my alarm.” He hadn’t prepared a better excuse yet.

 

Iwaizumi opens his mouth, closes it, and then just storms into the house. The other two trail closely behind, as they casually take a seat on the couch. They lounge in silence for the first few minutes, until Matsukawa asks, “Oikawa, what’s going on?”

 

Oikawa’s jaw instinctively tightens as he registers the inquiry. Iwaizumi isn’t facing his direction, but Hanamaki’s thin eyes are just boring through him.

 

There was nothing wrong. There _is_ nothing wrong. “I’m just tired.” He is. He’s tired. But everyone’s tired every now and then.

 

“You never missed practice before, even when you got that nasty injury.” Hanamaki supplies solemnly, “Oikawa, we’re not shitheads. We can tell when something’s going on.”

 

Can they? Oikawa’s not even on the same page as they are – he has absolutely no clue. He runs his unnaturally bony fingers through his hair, in which his locks were sticking out in a hideous manner. Normally, his friends would’ve laughed their asses off. Oikawa doesn’t know what’s stopping them today.

 

“Did you eat?”

 

Iwaizumi questions with an eerie kind of tranquility. Oikawa knows that tone. He doesn’t like it. He thinks about lying through his teeth. But Iwaizumi will see through him, because he always has.

 

“No.”

 

Hanamaki interjects, “I have cream puffs?”

 

“Not everyone thinks dessert is suitable for their first meal, Makki dear.” Matsukawa shakes his head, and Hanamaki sports an affronted look.

 

“I don’t accept that.”

 

“It’s reality.”

 

“Reality is an illusion.”

 

Something in Oikawa bubbles, and he snickers. His friends snap towards him for a split second, before they break into smiles and snorts. Everything’s okay.

 

He hopes so.

 

* * *

 

He messes up.

 

It’s not an actual game, but that’s beside the point. It was such an easy receive. With his skill level, he should’ve been able to easily pick up that ball, saved that point, and successfully tossed it to his spiker.

 

But no, he inched a centimeter too far towards the left, and the ball bounced off the crease of his arm. He redeems himself throughout the game, but it isn’t sufficient. That one blunder crosses his mind as he receives fifty-six more balls during the match, and he holds his breath as he swiftly twists into a set-up motion. His eyes are fixed on the ball until it safely leaves him, flying towards the wing spiker in the air.

 

He’s a mess.

 

Everyone’s done a fantastic job. Kunimi was actually active for once throughout the whole course of the game, Kindaichi pulls off amazing straights, Hanamaki saves impossible near-outs, Matsukawa’s blocks are more than simply effective, and Iwaizumi is-

 

Iwaizumi is perfect. As always.

 

Oikawa still doesn’t know what he has done to deserve him. Iwaizumi is strong, caring, and just… there. It helps. He knows Oikawa inside and out, knows when he’s black and white and grey.

 

His feelings for his best friend are quite transparent. He doesn’t permit them to surface.

 

“Oikawa, good work today.” Matsukawa huffs as he wipes his sweat with a damp towel. Something stabs Oikawa in the gut, and it feels horridly disgusting.

 

“I fucked up, Mattsun.” He grumbles, and his friend scowls.

 

“Seriously, you were great.”

 

“No, I –“ He sucks up a salty breath, “I don’t even know how I missed that receive, it’s ridiculous. We have a game coming up soon, and I can’t just –“

 

Matsukawa doesn’t let him continue his rant. Instead, his large hand is enclosed around Oikawa’s wrist, squeezing it tight. The latter peers at Matsukawa, who is biting on his bottom lip, his cheeks scrunched. “Oikawa.” He grunts, “Everyone makes mistakes. It’s a sport. You’re bound to make mistakes. Even Kageyama and Ushiwaka –“

 

“I know.” Oikawa cuts him off – he’s had this conversation somewhere. He doesn’t recall when, but he remembers something like it.

 

“You don’t.” Matsukawa’s voice is a low rumble, and there’s a crack between his thick brows. “You’re pushing yourself, Oikawa. And it’s not like I don’t understand – I do – but this isn’t healthy. You’re the greatest setter I know.” Matsukawa doesn’t lie. At least, he doesn’t lie while wearing that particular expression. One that he uses when he needs to get a point across.

 

“Thanks.” Oikawa softly responds, “I’ll… try.”

 

He can tell that Matsukawa isn’t convinced, but at least he nods.

 

* * *

 

He’s eating dinner alone in the house and he has this stupid urge to cry.

 

It’s stupid. It really is. It’s not like his parents had that much free time – they had busy days, they were full-time workers, and they sustained the household. It wasn’t even uncommon to eat alone. He’d just order pizza to the house, maybe Chinese food, and if he felt eccentric he got Thai.

 

Today, he just lifted his chopsticks and put them back down in the paper cup of ramen. His favorite noodles just tasted too salty, the broth too oily and thick. He wanted to vomit. An inexplicable sensation of emptiness overwhelmed his guts, as he spat out the noodles and buried his face into the wooden table.

 

He doesn’t even know what to do. He has no idea why he’s feeling this way, he has no idea who to reach out to. This solitude, this hollowness – he despised it. It was suffocating him at the heart, as his windpipe slowly constricted, knocking the air out of him.

 

He wants to scream. Something pricks at his eyes, and he presumes that it might be tears, but they don’t come out, and in fact, no sound escapes him at all. He’s just wheezing on the table, scratching at the tablecloth, the cup noodles tipped over to one side, the hot soup dripping onto his foot, burning the skin.

 

He hates it.

 

He hates everything.

 

He wants to see the leaves fall.

 

He wants to see them crunch into dust.

 

He wants to see life die away.

 

So he breathes.

 

Then he stops.

 

* * *

 

He’s studying with Hanamaki in the library on a Tuesday afternoon, with practice canceled due to the renovation of the gym. Iwaizumi and Matsukawa had left the school to buy drinks for all of them, as a punishment for losing a game of rock-paper-scissors. Hanamaki’s evidently distracted, as he is folding paper cranes with his English quizzes.

 

“Hey, Oikawa, have you thought about what you want to do?” He absentmindedly inquires, shoving his stack of cranes aside and moving onto butterflies.

 

“Mm,” The setter draws meaningless shapes on his Japanese literature assignment. “Not really.”

 

“I assumed you were going pro, though.”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“Oh,” Hanamaki shifts in his chair, as he presses his thumb over a piece of scrap paper. “Then what do you have in mind?”

 

Once again, he doesn’t have an answer ready. He stopped thinking about his future for a while. Since when? He struggles to remember, but he can’t. “I haven’t really put much time into it, Makki.”

 

“Huh,” Hanamaki doesn’t look as intrigued by his tentative origami activity anymore. “So nothing?”

 

Oikawa’s gaze is glued to his worksheet, as he mumbles, “I haven’t really thought about living.”

 

There’s a long pause. It takes him a few seconds to understand what just occurred, and to actually translate what he had just uttered. His pencil rolls away as it drops from his grip, as Oikawa caught his breath.

 

“Oikawa.” Hanamaki’s voice is quavering, his orbs dilated and clouded. “What the hell do you mean by that?”

 

Oikawa’s lips part, and just remain there for a while. He wishes to clear the misunderstanding – he hadn’t meant for that slip – but did that mean he was actually serious? It must’ve come out the wrong way, because Oikawa definitely –

 

Did he?

 

“ _Tooru.”_ Lunging forward, Hanamaki yanks at his collar, and forces him to meet eyes. “What the fuck do you- are you _mental?_ You didn’t –“ His sentence cracks as he chokes down a sob, and Oikawa’s stomach pools with this chill glacier in it.

 

“What’s happening?” Matsukawa interrupts them, obviously worried as he places two cups of latte on the table. The librarian is shooting them a warning gleam from her spectacles in the corner. Iwaizumi sets down his portion of coffee as well, but he’s completely concentrated on Oikawa.

 

“This guy- this _bastard,_ he just fucking –“ Hanamaki breaks down, and Matsukawa grasps his shoulders in panic. “Oikawa Tooru, how _dare you_.”

 

Oikawa finally recovers, just enough to speak. “I,” he swallows dryly, “didn’t mean that.”

 

“Jesus Christ, Oikawa, people don’t blurt out that they haven’t thought about _living_ anymore.” Hanamaki’s volume rises exponentially, and they pretty much have everyone’s undivided attention and an unwanted audience in their scene. The librarian has her arms crossed, and Iwaizumi ushers them outside, his grasp around Oikawa’s wrist too strong. Oikawa winced at the pain, but didn’t protest.

 

Once they’re fully outdoors, Iwaizumi slams him into the nearest wall.

 

“What the _fuck_ is this about?” He demands, and Oikawa just feels weary. He doesn’t want to have this talk. Not right now, and probably not ever. He wants to sleep – sleep sounds like mercy, like a blessing.

 

Unfortunately, Iwaizumi needs an answer.

 

“It just slipped, Iwa-chan.” His world appears grey. Something in Iwaizumi breaks. But he doesn’t know what.

 

“You _weren’t_ –“ Iwaizumi hunches down, his hands entangled with Oikawa’s uniform vest, his fists trembling as he whispers, “You were _never_ like this, what the _fuck-_ where did I miss, what the hell was I doing –“ His speech is garbled and nonsensical, and Oikawa has no idea why his best friend is blaming himself over this.

 

“This is against the rules,” Iwaizumi stutters, “You don’t fucking get to do this to me –“

 

Oikawa doesn’t know. He doesn’t know anything. There’s a dried, dead leaf crushed beneath Iwaizumi’s foot, and as he treads his fingers through Hajime’s spiky hair, muttering an apology and steady breathing, he fixates his emptied glass on the leaf, with the brown that resonates within.

 

* * *

  

The argument that day is never brought into the group again.

 

They gradually roll into another ordinary rhythm, a well-learned beat. Oikawa can sense the tension between them, and Hanamaki snorts a lot less. In fact, Oikawa’s pretty certain that Hanamaki has not been alone with him since then. Matsukawa spends time with him a lot more often, ruffling the pink fluff of hair. Hanamaki snuggles into the touch, and then stiffens when he sees Oikawa at the doorway of class.

 

Iwaizumi avoids him for a while. Oikawa doesn’t remember the last time he has been called ‘Shittykawa’ by his companion. He longs for the familiarity, for his best friend. But at the same time, he can tell the distance was growing, and their string was becoming fragile. Their connection was vanishing.

 

Even so, Oikawa acts normal. He grins at the girls, he sets the volleyballs, he serves one over the net, and threads his life together. Or at least, he attempts to. His parents steal a glimpse at his form every now and then at home, and his sister cups his cheek and questions if he’s eating alright. The concern that flashes past her face hurts him, so he assures her that he’s doing fine. Internally, he tries to think of the last time he ate sans the granola bar for breakfast.

 

He’s exhausted.

 

His muscles are sore, his head rings, and his throat burns. His hair is ruined as he runs his fingers through the locks every five minutes, and his insides churn when he hasn’t even consumed food or a single drop of water. He wants to vomit, but he abhors the taste of acid. So he doesn’t.

 

Instead, he supplants the need with squeezing his stomach, hoping the physical pain will erase the abstract agony. It hurts, it bruises, but it alleviates him from the abyss he has fallen into.

 

He’s in the process of doing it one afternoon outside the school cafeteria, when Matsukawa steps in and gently removes his hand from his gut.

 

“Oikawa,” He murmurs, “Talk to us.”

 

Something snaps within. There’s nothing to discuss. They’re overreacting.

 

“Fuck off, Mattsun.” He says sharply, brushing the contact away. Matsukawa twists his lips to the right, but persists.

 

“We’re losing you.” He sounds a little too rushed, a little too panicked to be Matsukawa. It draws Oikawa’s attention. “Tell us something. Anything. Makki’s in denial, and Iwaizumi, he-“ He gulps, and something warms Oikawa as he heeds Iwaizumi’s name. “He’s losing it. He doesn’t know what to do. We don’t know what to do. So please, just talk to us.”

 

Oikawa clamps his mouth shut. Matsukawa waits, in that stiff, solid posture.

 

A crisp, murky brown leaf floats and lands on the ground, and everything tastes bitter.

 

* * *

 

 

_He actually doesn’t know when it all began._

_It’s different, from all the other things he doesn’t know. There’s a border between what he “doesn’t know” and what he doesn’t know. There’s a difference._

_Some days were just more distressing than others. His incompetence, his pathetic coping methods – he was sick of himself. He was sick of everything. He held onto volleyball. He held onto his friends._

_He held onto Iwaizumi._

_And then, he let go._

_He shouldn’t have._

* * *

 

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

He exhales, the chilly autumn wind seeping into his bones. Iwaizumi is next to him, his arms crossed, the sky dark and dotted with clouds.

 

“Don’t say that.” The other grunts, “Don’t.”

 

“I just –“ Oikawa’s voice hitches.

 

_It’s just been a bad phase._

_Just really agitating, just one of those days. One of those weeks._

He feels warmth soak into his back, as Iwaizumi rubs it with his hand quietly.

 

“I’m here.”

 

It’s not an ‘it’ll be alright’, an ‘are you okay’, or even a ‘cheer up’ followed by some shitty line. There’s assurance, there’s a definitive response.

 

Oikawa sinks, falls to the ground, and his body crumples into the cement as he chokes, he sobs, he loses himself, like a dead leaf. Iwaizumi just holds him, descends with him, his embrace tight and almost suffocating, his inhales and exhales restrained, as he just remains there, preventing Oikawa from shattering.

 

“Hajime,” Tooru mumbles, “I actually don’t like dead leaves.” Of course, it’s a comical phrase to say at this time. There’s no way Hajime will understand the analogy, the symbolism, what he means.

 

“Me neither.” Hajime answers, “But you like many other things.”

 

And he’s right. He’s right. Very right.

 

“Yeah,” Oikawa’s reply is muffled as he speaks into Iwaizumi’s coat, sniffing the cloth that smelled of wood, of coffee. Of Iwaizumi. He likes many other things. “Yeah.” He repeats, specific in his concealed meaning.

 

Iwaizumi’s arm wraps around his neck, as he leans in to place his lips against Oikawa’s soft hair. They interlock, they intertwine. “Yeah, I know.” He hums, because he knows. They know.

 

He’s still tired.

 

He’s still lost.

 

It’s not okay.

 

But it could be better.

 

(It will be.)


End file.
